Whatever: a novel (6 page)

The afternoon will be devoted to practical work on the computer. It's then that I move into action: while Tisserand continues with his explanations I pass among the groups to check that everybody is managing to follow, to accomplish the set exercises. I handle it very well; but then that's my job.

I am often called upon by the two cuties; they are secretaries, and apparently this is the first time they've been in front of a computer console. So they're a bit panicky and, what's more, rightly so. But each time I go over to them Tisserand intervenes, without hesitating to interrupt his explanation. It's mainly one of the two who attracts him, I get the feeling; and it's true that she is ravishing, fleshy, very sexy; she wears a bustier of black lace and her breasts move slightly beneath the material. Alas, each time he goes up to the poor little secretary her face contorts in an expression of involuntary repulsion, of disgust, one might almost say. It was bound to happen.

At five another bell rings out. The students gather up their things, prepare to leave; but Schnäbele makes for us: the venomous soul has, it seems, another card up his sleeve. He immediately tries to buttonhole me with an opening remark: Ìf anything, this is a question, I'd say, for a systems man like you.' Then he explains his problem to me: should he or shouldn't he buy a thyratron inverter to stabilize the incoming voltage of the current feeding the server network? He's heard conflicting opinions on the subject. I know absolutely nothing about it and am about to tell him so. But Tisserand, clearly in top form, beats me to it: a study has just been published on the subject, he audaciously affirms; the conclusions are obvious: above a certain ratio of work to machine the inverter rapidly pays its way, in less than three years in any event. Unfortunately he doesn't have the study on him, or even the reference; but he promises to send him a photocopy on returning to Paris.

A palpable hit. Schnäbele backs away, completely brow-beaten; he even goes so far as to wish us a pleasant evening.

The evening will firstly consist in finding a hotel. On Tisserand's initiative we book into the 'Armes Cauchoises'. A nice hotel, a very nice hotel; and anyway our expenses are reimbursed, right?

Next he wants to have an apéritif. By all means! In the café he chooses a table not far from two girls. He sits down, the girls get up and go. No doubt about it, the plan is perfectly synchronized. Bravo girls, bravo!

In desperation he orders a Martini; I content myself with a beer. I feel rather nervous; I don't stop smoking, I literally light one cigarette after another. He tells me he's just signed on with a gym to lose a bit of weight, ànd also to score, of course.' An excellent idea, I'm not against it.

I realize I'm smoking more and more; I must be on at least four packs a day. Smoking cigarettes has become the only element of real freedom in my life. The only act to which I tenaciously cling with my whole being. My one ambition.

Tisserand next broaches a favourite theme of his, namely that Ìt's us guys, the computer experts, we're the kings.' I suppose by that he means a high salary, a certain professional status, a great facility for changing jobs. And OK, within these limits he isn't wrong. We are the kings.

He expands on his idea; I open my fifth pack of Camels. Shortly afterwards he finishes his Martini; he wants to return to the hotel to change for dinner. Right then, fine, let's go for it.

I wait for him in the lounge while watching television. There's something on about student demonstrations. One of these, in Paris, has assumed enormous proportions: according to the journalists there were at least three hundred thousand people on the streets. It was supposed to be a non-violent demonstration, more like a big party. And like all non-violent demonstrations it turned nasty, a student has lost an eye, a CRS policeman has had a hand torn off, etc.

The day after this huge demonstration a march has taken place in Paris to protest against `police brutality'. It has passed off in an atmosphere òf overwhelming dignity' reports the commentator, who is clearly on the students' side. All this dignity gets on my nerves; I change channel and chance on a sexy pop promo. Finally I switch off.

Tisserand returns; he's put on a sort of evening shell-suit, black and gold, which makes him look rather like a scarab beetle. Right then, let's go for it.

As to the restaurant, we go at my insistence to The Flunch. It's a place where you can eat chips with an unlimited quantity of mayonnaise (all you do is scoop as much mayonnaise as you want from a giant bucket); I'll be happy, come to that, with a plate of chips drowned in mayonnaise, and a beer. Tisserand himself immediately orders a couscous royal and a bottle of Sidi Brahim. After the second glass of wine he begins eyeing up the waitresses, the customers, anybody. Sad young man. Sad, sad young man. I'm well aware of why he basically likes my company so much: it's because I never speak of my girlfriends. I never make a big thing of my female conquests. And so he feels justified in supposing (rightly, as it happens) that for one reason or another I don't have a sex life; and for him that's one less burden, a slight easing of his own martyrdom. I remember being present at a distressing scene the day Tisserand was introduced to Thomassen, who'd just joined our firm. Thomassen is Swedish in origin; he is extremely tall (a bit over six foot three, I reckon), superbly well-proportioned, and his face is incredibly handsome, sunny and radiant; you really have the impression of being in the presence of a superman, a demigod.

Thomassen first shook my hand, then went over to Tisserand. Tisserand got up and realized that, standing, the other man was a good fifteen inches taller than him. He abruptly sat down, his face went bright red, I even thought for a moment that he was going to go for Thomassen's throat; it was painful to see.

Later I made a number of trips to the provinces with Thomassen - for training sessions, the usual sort of thing. We got on really well. I've remarked it time and again: exceptionally beautiful people are often modest, gentle, affable, considerate. They have great difficulty in making friends, at least among men. They're forced to make a constant effort to try and make you forget their superiority, be it ever so little.

Tisserand, thank God, has never been called on to make a trip with Thomassen. But each time a group of training sessions is being organized I know he thinks about it, and that he has a lot of sleepless nights.

After the meal he wants to go for a drink in a `friendly café'. Wonderful.

I follow just behind, and I have to say this time his choice turns out to be excellent: we go into a kind of huge vaulted cellar, with old, obviously authentic beams. Small wooden tables, lit with candles, are dotted all over the place. A fire burns in an immense fireplace at the end of the room. The whole thing makes for an atmosphere of happy improvization, of congenial disorder.

We sit down. He orders a bourbon and water, I stick to beer. I look about me and say to myself that this time this is it, this is perhaps the journey's end for my luckless companion. We're in a student café, everyone's happy, everybody wants to have fun. There are lots of tables with two or three young women at them, there are even some girls alone at the bar.

I watch Tisserand while assuming my most engaging air. The young men and women in the café touch each other. The women push back their hair with a graceful gesture. They cross their legs, await the occasion to burst into laughter. In short, they've having fun. Now's the time to score, right here and now, in this place that lends itself so perfectly.

He raises his eyes from his drink and, from behind his glasses, fixes his gaze on me. And I remark that he's run out of steam. He can't go on, he has no more appetite for the fray, he's had it up to here. He looks at me, his face trembles a little. Doubtless it's the alcohol, he drank too much wine at dinner, the jerk. I wonder if he isn't going to break into sobs, recount the stations of his particular cross to me; I feel him capable of something of the sort; the lenses of his glasses are slightly fogged with tears.

It's not a problem, I can handle it, listen to the lot, carry him back to the hotel if I have to; but I'm sure that come tomorrow morning he'll be pissed off with me.

I remain silent; I wait without saying anything; I find no judicious words to utter. The uncertainty persists for a minute or so, then the crisis passes. In a strangely feeble, almost trembling voice he says to me: `We'd best go back. Have to begin first thing in the morning.'

Right, back it is. We'll finish our drinks and back it is. I light a last cigarette, look at Tisserand once more. He really is totally haggard. Wordlessly he lets me pay the bill, wordlessly he follows me as I make for the door. He's stooped, huddled; he's ashamed of himself, hates himself, wishes he were dead.

We walk in the direction of the hotel. In the street it's starting to rain. So there it is, our first day in Rouen over. And I know that on this evidence the days ahead will be absolutely identical.

2

Every Day's a New Day

Witnessed the death of a guy, today, in the Nouvelles Galeries. A very simple death, à la Patricia Highsmith (what I mean is, with that simplicity and brutality characteristic of real life which is also found in the novels of Patricia Highsmith).

Here's how it happened. On entering the part of the store that's arranged as a selfservice I observed a man whose face I couldn't see stretched out on the floor (but I subsequently learnt, while listening in on a conversation between the checkout girls, that he must have been about forty). A lot of people were already fussing over him. I went by trying not to linger too long, so as not to show morbid curiosity. It was around six o'clock.

I bought one or two things: cheese and sliced bread to eat in my hotel room (I'd decided to avoid Tisserand's company that particular evening, to relax a bit). But I hesitated a while over the very varied bottles of wine offered tip to the covetousness of the public. The problem was I didn't have a corkscrew. And anyway, I don't like wine; this last argument clinched it and I opted for a six-pack of Tuborg.

On arriving at the checkout I learnt from a conversation between the checkout girls and a couple who'd assisted in the life-saving operation, at least in its final phase, that the man was dead. The female partner in the couple was a nurse. She was saying that he should have been given heart massage, that maybe this would have saved him. I don't know, I know nothing about it, but if that was the case then why didn't she do it? I find it hard to comprehend this kind of attitude.

In any event, the conclusion I draw from it all is that in certain circumstances you can so easily depart this life - or not, as the case may be.

It can't be said that this had been a very dignified death, what with all the people passing by pushing their trolleys (it was the busiest time of the day), in that circus atmosphere which always characterizes supermarkets. I remember there was even the Nouvelles Galeries advertising jingle (perhaps they've changed it since); the refrain, in particular, consisted of the following words:
Nouvelles Galeries, todayeee .

. . Every day's a new day
. . .

When I came out the man was still there. The body had been wrapped in some carpets, or more likely thick blankets, tied up very tight with string. It was no longer a man but a parcel, heavy and inert, and arrangements were being made for its transport.

All in a day's work. It was six-twenty.

3

The Old Marketplace Game

I know it's crazy but I've decided to stay in Rouen this weekend. Tisserand was astonished to hear it; I explained to him I wanted to see the town and that I had nothing better to do in Paris. I don't really want to see the town.

And yet there are very fine medieval remains, some ancient houses of great charm. Five or six centuries ago Rouen must have been one of the most beautiful towns in France; but now it's ruined. Everything is dirty, grimy, run down, spoiled by the abiding presence of cars, noise, pollution. I don't know who the mayor is, but it only takes ten minutes of walking the streets of the old town to realize that he is totally incompetent, or corrupt.

To make matters worse there are dozens of yobs who roar down the streets on their motorbikes or scooters, and without silencers. They come in from the Rouen suburbs, which are nearing total industrial collapse. Their objective is to make a deafening racket, as disagreeable as possible, a racket which should be unbearable for the local residents. They are completely successful.

I leave my hotel around two. Without thinking, I go in the direction of the Place du Vieux Marché. It is a truly vast square, bordered entirely by cafés, restaurants and luxury shops. It's here that Joan of Arc was burnt more than five hundred years ago. To commemorate the event they've piled up a load of weirdly curved concrete slabs, half stuck in the ground, which turn out on closer inspection to be a church. There are also embryonic lawns, flowerbeds, and some ramps which seem destined for lovers of skateboarding - unless it be for the cars of the disabled, it's hard to tell. But the complexity of the place doesn't end here: there are also shops in the middle of the square, under a sort of concrete rotunda, as well as an edifice which looks like a bus station.